Answer
by borrowedheaven
Summary: JCAL, post season 10 finale - "And that the answer was always there; he just had to dig a little, she had to stop feeling apprehensive."


**Answer**

**

* * *

**

The characters of ER do not belong to me, they belong to Michael Crichton and to who ever else owns them. This is purely for entertainment purposes only and not for any profitable means what so ever. If you haven't seen up to the finale of season 10, I suggest you don't read this as it gives a tiny bit of the end of the season away. Not really so spoiler-ish as in I give away names or certain situations that have happened, but yeah, you've been warned. It's also a little different than how I usually write, but I hope you like it anyway.

Big thanks go to Sarah as always, for being the wonderful beta she is. Also a shout out to JJ, and Amy – thanks for reading beforehand also. I hope you enjoy, and please, any feedback would be great. Either use the review button, or drop me a line at corrmaniahotmail.com. Oh, before I forget, it's a standalone. I will not be continuing this unless for some reason I find I want to. But, that's highly unlikely and of course, totally up to me ;)

* * *

He stands there quietly in the cold and almost silent room. The stereo plays a soft, melancholic song he's heard many a time before when he's been in his car, or on the El, and now here in the subdued apartment. Looking at her and the look that is being returned to him, he almost forgets why he is here, and what made him come to her place right now in this moment. 

This incomprehensible moment that had him running to her apartment, rushing as fast as weary feet would carry him.

He knows that for some reason, he is drawn to her in that inexplicable way, a way he tries to explain but knows he can't, nor should.

The way he is drawn to her now, standing here near her kitchen, near her – although wishing to be closer.

She steps away from the door towards the couch, silently slipping on the sweater that rests on the chair nearby. She momentarily forgets that its his, and a wave of panic sweeps through her. Looking at him as he follows her further into the room, she can see the recognition that skims across his face, but he says nothing so she tugs it on further, and wraps her arms around the warm material of the sweater that clothes her.

The one sweater he had forgotten to take with him those many months ago, when he'd first left. It provides her with the warmth he's been unable to give during his time away from her. The warmth he took with him the minute he walked away from her the second time. And although it was still a form of warmth she yearningly craves, it would always be a small comparison that could never match what he had once given her.

The window is partially open behind him, and small fragments of the dreary night wafts through it. The late night breeze rustles the flimsy curtains; they dance in the wind just like the strands of her golden hair do as they whip around her face. He wonders if those bits of hair annoy her, as she swipes them away from her eyes and attempts to tuck it behind her ears. He remembers it never used to bother her in the past, but looking at the frustrated look that grazes her face momentarily, he reasons that maybe it might do now.

Or maybe him coming to her home right now is part of that irritation. He wonders if being here is the right idea, if he should just leave instead. If he should be standing here in the middle of her living room, looking at her the way he is now. If he should be allowed to ache for her the way he is, and has been. If he thinks that he should be allowed to hold her, clad in his sweater, her favourite pyjama pants clinging to her small frame, hair un-brushed and tangled around her shoulders.

He's unable to read the look on her face now; it frustrates him to no end. He hates that at times he can read her better than anyone else will ever be able to in her lifetime, yet there are those rare times when he's incapable of knowing exactly what's running through the depths of her fragile, yet determined mind.

This is one of those rare times.

She makes no indication that she's overly delighted to see him, here at this hour of the night but he's comforted by the small smile she offers him as she looks over at him again. He knows that she's tired though, she's been working hard lately – she's finally stopped putting her life on hold. She's making changes for herself, all by herself and without his help. She's chasing one of her long-held dreams that's been put away and shelved more than once in her adult life.

She's finally taken a risk she'd been unwilling to pursue a short time ago.

With his hands in his pockets, fingers curled around the frayed edges on the inside of his jeans, he's here to try to reclaim a dream he thought he'd never get a chance to fight for again. He fidgets nervously, fingers now tapping against each other in his pockets. He blinks twice. Once to see if she hasn't moved away and is indicating that she wants him out of her home, twice to stop the incipient tears from cascading down his tired and sore eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, but his throat produces no sound.

He frowns; he has his words rehearsed down to the very last one he wants to say to her. He's spent mornings sitting at his kitchen table alone, words flowing from the pen that scratched across the notepaper he'd dug up from his Gamma's old desk in the study, the study he hadn't stepped foot into since her death. The notepaper that still rests in his coat pocket, against the keys to his house and the cigarette he was hungering to smoke earlier. He wants to get the paper out, to show it to her, to speak its words to her. His hands don't move from the pockets though, but it's not because he's afraid.

He realises that maybe showing her another letter is not a good idea; especially after finding out that the first one he sent her had spread through work like a fire and had gotten into the hands of other colleagues. Whether or not she showed it to them voluntarily was something he wasn't willing to ask just yet. The look of her pained face when he came home the second time flashes through his mind, and it reminds him just how much his actions have tormented her. He knows now, as the grief continues to gradually fade, that he has made mistakes. He may have thought he was happy, that he was in love, but he knows now that it was only the idea of what his African love was bringing to him that made him happy.

He didn't realise his mind was clouded, that he wasn't thinking as straight as he originally thought he was.

And it wasn't her fault, she didn't know.

He didn't tell her, he didn't let her in.

So she knew that she couldn't stay with him. She couldn't be the one to give him what he wanted, when what he wanted wasn't her.

He thought that she could be the one to save him from the heartache that he was running away from the first time he went to Africa, and the second time he decided to stay. He realises that it was wrong of him to put that sort of pressure on her, but he knows that she was everything he hadn't found here in Chicago. But that everything he thought he wanted, everything that she openly gave and he gave in return, wasn't what he thought he needed; he recognises that it's a million-fold better here, and he's angry at himself for not knowing this before.

He loves the woman standing in front of him now, not the one who bid him farewell a little more than four months ago.

He loves the one opening her door to him again, in spite of everything that has occurred. He loved her then, and he loves her now.

The first time around, he was hoping that with her, the relationship would be everything he had wanted it to be and more. When it wasn't, he became disheartened, questioning her and even himself. She pushed him away, he pulled away. He thought she could change, for him. She thought nobody could change, not even her. He wanted her to be perfect, to adapt so their relationship could be what most people dreamed of. He wanted to tear down her walls and keep that door open, make her happy, have her love him like he loves her.

He forgets that he needed to make transformations just like she did. He wasn't perfect; he was, and still is, far from it. He realises that his short-comings were just as much to blame as hers were. But that's what reminds him why relationships need persistent work, continual growth. They can't expect everything to be flowers and candy, blue skies and tranquil walks in the park, love-making every morning and stolen kisses in empty rooms at work. He can't expect her to be faultless, just like she can't expect him to be flawless. They needed to work at it together because underneath all their insecurities, all their baggage, and all their faults, they still loved each other.

They just forgot how to fight for something they both wanted to stick. Something they both wanted to last forever.

They forgot how to communicate, to voice their fears, their wants. Those all-important declarations of love.

He left her because he thought it was the right thing to do at the time. He thought it would be best to give her the time alone to assess herself, to find out what she wanted from life, from herself and from him. He thought it was best to give him the time to find the answers to all those questions that were inhibiting every corner of his clouded mind. He thought he could find those answers if he left Chicago, left behind the life he thought he was comfortable in. The same life that was bringing him down into the ground no matter how hard he tried to fight it, to stop it. This life that wasn't going according to his plans.

He thought he could find them in Africa, and most of all, in his new love.

But the turn of events spurred from his trip away, the unspoken manner in which she forgave him for running away and leaving her, the feelings he'd pushed down too far that are now returning – it all proves to him that he was wrong in one of the worst ways possible.

Running away was not the answer, and it never will be.

He ran away from the woman whom he loves the most. He ran away from the dream he's been clinging onto since they'd first become friends. He pushed her away because he thought he wasn't high on her priority list, because he thought that she didn't love him.

He was so wrong.

He was misguided.

She's stopped running; now it's time he stopped too.

Her arms are folded across the embroidered letters of his Northwestern sweater. Her face is weary, her eyes are shiny with the unshed tears that match his. She wonders why he's here, at this late hour of the night. She finished her double shift a little more than five hours ago, eager to get to the comfort of her own home after another hectic day as an intern. She succumbed to a dreamless sleep easily, eyes closing as soon as her head had hit the pillow. She slept effortlessly for a short while, only to be interrupted by small knockings upon her wooden door not more than five minutes ago. She had been reluctant to open it, half tempted to yell out to whoever it was to go away, or to bury herself further under the covers in hopes that the person would disappear and leave her be.

But something inside told her to get up, to go and see who, at this instance of the night, was seeking her out.

She had admittedly been surprised to see him standing on the other side of her door, although deep down, a small part of her knew that it'd only be a matter of time before he'd come to see her. She has wanted to go to him for a while now, wanted to sit with him and offer him her words of comfort, and of support. But she knows that he needed to be alone after his loss, to grieve privately. She'll put aside her pride and past hurt, and swallow them before it eats her up and takes him away from her again.

She promises herself that she will be there for him, like she couldn't be before.

She acknowledges the mistakes she's made in the past with him, vowing to not make them twice. She knows all too well that she could have handled situations differently, if her life hadn't been on hold because of the fear of the unknown, of her unwillingness to take risks. She also knows that she can learn from her errors, and prove to him that he can lean on her if he finds that he needs to.

She can be there for him, she can be that shoulder of strength if he needs that support.

She knows that now, she'll be a friend to him. She can help him if he wants her too.

She's long pushed past the feelings of anger and the hurt he's caused her. His letter brought to her the harsh truth of reality, made her see that if she took a good, long look at herself, she wasn't as happy as the mask she had conveniently formed told everyone. The letter which has caused her unbearable amounts of hurt, anger and shame has been acknowledged, and then turned into something good.

She's following the dream she thought she had no choice but to give up those few short years ago.

Even though she wanted to scream, tear shreds at him when she first read the letter, she realises that it has helped her in the best way possible. She owes him her greatest amount of thanks. It made her take a step back and helped her assess her life, and most of all, herself. She remembers telling him that she didn't think anybody could change. So she finds it ironic now, that she's changed so much since that night so long ago, that it was possible to do so, and also be happy about it.

While she loved being a nurse, she loves being a doctor more. She feels accomplished now, more than ever a time she did before. The rush of a trauma, bringing a patient back from the brink of death and knowing that it was because of her and the team of people around her, thrills her even more than it did than when she was a nurse. She's doing something she's even better at, and enjoying it at the same time as well.

She's happy.

Happy with herself, sober for eighteen months and counting, cigarette-less for over a year now too. Graduated from medical school, finally the doctor she's always wanted to be. Happy with the friends she found in the new faces around work, with the ones she's kept close by her side during the tough times, and also the good times. She's grateful for her best friend, a fellow colleague, for helping to keep her grounded, for helping her when she needs it.

She knows she's always learning. Learning how to ask for help, learning to let in those she trusts little by little. Knowing that it's okay to do so, because they aren't like the others she's encountered through her life. They won't use anything against her, not like people have before. They won't break her down, cut into the depths of her past and shatter her by using it and her previous actions as an excuse, like so many others before them have successfully done. They may not know much about her now, but in time they will, when she's ready.

She's happy, but that doesn't stop her from wanting to share this newfound, this different kind of happiness with him. She finds herself missing him in the strangest ways, in those moments when she least expects herself to be thinking about him. In the way how he used to sleep beside her at night, his arms curled around her, his leg draped across her and his breathing deep and even. Missing him in how he knows the exact way she takes her coffee in the morning, and how hot she has her showers when she's had a bad day. Missing him in the way that he knows she's not a morning person like he is, and teasing her playfully about it when he tries to get her out of bed.

But above all, above everything else, she finds that she misses her favourite kind warmth. The kind that he provides, and the love he radiates.

All of this that she hopes she can return again someday. Like she used to, but this time only better.

She finds that she misses the comfort from him that she's craved from the moment he stepped out her door, that fateful morning. Stepped away from her harsh words that whispered for him to leave, to return his key and for the moment let her be. Words that contradicted everything she was feeling inside, everything she ached to tell him instead. To tell him about how she really felt all that time, when he came back to her from his trip. She wasn't expecting to first see him sitting there at the end of her bed when she woke up, his hand resting gently on her thigh with eyes full of unshed tears that were waiting to spill over when given the chance to. It surprised her, but before she knew it, her heart was being overruled by her head once again.

Looking back now, she knows that she acted on impulse, on her feelings at that moment. She's wished many times that she could go back, change her actions, save him from the heartache she has caused him then from her mistakes, from the heartache he's been through in the most recent months. But in time, she could see that for this particular relationship, maybe they needed to be apart in order for them to change, to grow.

She knows that she's owes most of it to him, for some of the changes she's made. And she hopes that soon, she can share it with him. Let him know in more ways than one that she's grateful for him, for his words in the letter from Africa. Let him know that she's not angry at him anymore, that the hurt has finally faded away and is now just a memory in her soul. And she realises that in time, they will find each other again and make it work properly this time.

That one time ago, she knows she was misguided.

But this time, she knows she would be different.

The cool breeze sways around her, sending cold shivers up her spine and causing her to shudder slightly as she glances at the semi-opened window. And she does so at the exact moment he takes a step forward, making that small move towards her in an attempt to get the conversation flowing. He stops as she frowns faintly, and his eyes contort in confusion. So he moves backwards, hurt.

Shaking her head when she realises that he thinks she doesn't want the closeness he's offering, she takes the initiative and crosses the short pathway over to him. He stands still, momentarily looks away from the intense stare radiating from her, but then looks back when her hand comes to a rest on his coat. His hands are clammy, his throat and lips dry, his voice now absent.

But the tears come. They trickle down his cheeks, forming pathways of pain and matching the unbearable affliction that's resided in his heart for all this time.

Exhaling the breath that she momentarily almost forgets to let go of, her eyes meet his, and she reaches her hand up from his coat, shakily, to rest on his cheek, her thumb slowly caressing the grainy stubble of his five o'clock shadow. He leans into her touch, eyes now closed but tears continuing to flow.

She smiles sadly, delicate fingers wiping free the salty remnants of the heartache he's endured over the months they'd spent apart, the months he's spent in turmoil. The heartache he's been through because of what he has lost, and what he's been through.

A heartache that threatened to overcome him when he thought he had lost everything.

The heartache that slowly begins to dull through time, though will never truly be forgotten.

His hand reaches up to rest upon hers, and he gently covers soft fingers with his own. His eyes open, and with this, it allows her to see to the depths of his battered down soul. The dulled pain etched in the weary crevices of every bone, every joint, every corner of his once-broken body. The muffled anguish dripping through him like an IV dispensing an antibiotic. The memories seeping through the opened wounds, memories that have the possibility to continue haunting him in the later days to come.

The apologies scream through his unsaid words and his gentle touches, and then finally through the electric looks that instantly pass between them.

The grip on her hand eases, but he doesn't let it go entirely. Fingers lace through fingers as they fall languidly to their sides, resting against the scratchy denim of his jeans-covered thigh. His eyes still remain locked on hers, and he hopes that she can see how sorry he is. A small glimmer emits from her eyes and confirms his hope, so he sighs quietly, knowing that she truly has forgiven him, and had done so long before he stepped foot into her apartment tonight.

It amazes him that she has chosen to forgive him, after everything that has happened between them. No screaming matches, harsh words or resentment floated between them when he returned the second time, and although he wonders why he deserves her forgiveness, he knows that she's sorry too. Sorry for everything that happened between them before he left, for the way things kept coming up in between them.

The timing was never good for them, but determination strikes them both this time. The timing of their relationship is going to only be on their terms now, and no one else's.

She reaches around his waist and underneath his heavy coat, wrapping arms around the thin cotton of his shirt. Her body moulds to his as easily as it used to when they had been dating, and she's grateful that even after time spent apart, they still fit together as simply as they do. She feels his arms wrap themselves around her shoulders, squeezing her tightly in an all too familiar gesture.

She knows that he doesn't want to let go right now, anymore than she does.

The material of his t-shirt is clutched between her hands, her forehead resting on his chest and breathing in the familiar scent that has always encompassed him. She smiles to herself when she realises he's doing the same, his face resting in the waves of her hair and inhaling the citrus scent of her shampoo. Squeezing him gently, she relaxes her grip and pulls backwards. Standing up on tip-toes, she presses her lips to his softly, although she ends the sweet kiss sooner than he would have liked her to. He leans in to do the same, to return her kiss, but her hand moves back to his cheek and gently stops him in his tracks, her thumb resting over his lips.

He frowns – he's not sure what's going on now.

She shakes her head, the look in her eyes asking him not to at this moment.

His arms drop to his sides, hands curling into clenched fists. Through confused eyes, he asks her why.

Asks for her to give him a reason.

The small sigh that she emits tells him that there is a lot they still need to talk about before they even think about resuming this relationship and giving it another go. There is a lot that needs to be considered, worked through, answered and restored. And the look that she gives him lets him know that she's more than willing to step up to the plate this time and work through it like she should have the first time. She won't push him away this time, she'll knock down those walls to as low as they can go, and the door will always remain open for him for now on.

She's determined to make this work like it should have in the very beginning.

For this to stick like it needs to, to be even better than before.

He knows that it's all he wants, too. To be here with her, in her apartment, holding her, loving her and breathing her in like he once used, and in the way that has made him agonise when he misses having her in his arms.

He has to admit to himself though, if unspoken words of declarations this time are going to be enough. If she really does love him. But with these thoughts, he mentally hits himself. He wouldn't be here if that wasn't true, and she wouldn't be willing to give it another go if there was that chance she didn't love him.

But the hand that rubs against the pocket of his shirt and over his heart, qualms a remaining fear that had settled in the pit of his empty stomach. Tracing a pattern of a love-heart over his own, a small smile adorns her face before she looks up at him. The pattern, her tiny grin, gives him the answer to the question he's silently been asking her since he first knew he was going to love her forever. He cocks his head to the side, and clasps her hand in his, leaving it resting against the beat of his heart.

He looks into the depths of her eyes as she nods at him, and he realises that he's known it all along.

And that the answer was always there; he just had to dig a little, she had to stop feeling apprehensive.

He pulls her back into his embrace. Hands find her waist again, chin rests on the top of her head, arms secure around each other.

They stay like this for a minute or so, before she gently runs her hand up and down his back and pulls away slightly. She stands on tip toes again and leans in towards his ear, answering his question now in the sweet yet quiet words that utter from her mouth. She rests her hands on his shoulders, lips graze his ears, words mingling with the breath she exhales.

Words he has been waiting for.

His answer.

"I love you."

Hands clench her waist a little tighter, and he feels her own hand rise to rest on the back of his neck, tracing another small love heart on it. It sends shivers down his spine, a shiver that reminds him that she is the only women he knows who has the ability to do that to him.

"I should have told you this a long time ago, but I do… I love you."

She pulls back, a new smile adorning pouty lips. And in it, he sees the contentment, the true happiness she's feeling.

He can see that it is a different type of happiness that he's seen on her previously, during her accomplishment as a doctor, when they had been apart.

This happiness is because of him.

Because of them.

He smiles broadly when she sighs happily, her hands moving so they were now running up and down his sides tenderly. Her smile remains, but her face takes on that seriousness he knows all too well. He's somewhat surprised when instead she wraps her arms around his neck, burying her face in the crook of it and placing another gentle kiss on him. He returns her kiss, although on her temple, taking another moment to breathe her in as he strains to hear the words she begins to whisper.

She pulls back to look at him once more, her words float around through the now warmed apartment.

"And I'm glad you're here with me… right now."

_Fin._


End file.
